“Rest, rest, Mamma,” he said. “Let the soccorritori do their work.”
—
To the young women, he held up his identification, and introduced himself.
“I’m with the police. What are your names?”
The women exchanged looks.
“We don’t speak Italian,” the dark-skinned girl said in English.
“Okay,” Valerio said.
He could understand and speak some English, but he didn’t like it. He’d never taken classes—just learned from American movies and YouTube. This would have to wait for Sonia, whose English was better.
“We’re American,” the blonde girl articulated slowly. “My father is Paul Lissom—the United States ambassador. Do you understand? The ambassador.”
Valerio nodded. “Capisco. I understand.”
She held out her phone, pointing at the screen.
Valerio took it and read the bubble text message she indicated.
Tell the police to call Phoenix Seven. Tell them to get Nikki Serafino.
Four
It was 01:30 and Nikki was awake. There was no good reason for it. The day had been exhausting—starting with a 07:30 work shift. Afterwards, she’d had a workout, grabbed dinner, then powered through the Krav Maga class. Between the intense schedule and the cold rain sapping her warmth, she should have been ready for an early sleep. But the attack on the street outside the studio had shot her through with adrenaline.
Again and again, her mind dragged her back to those furious moments of the assault, replaying the fear and rage—the way he’d used his size and strength to clamp her arms to her sides, hoisting her off the ground. She wished De Rosa hadn’t interfered. She was relieved when the attack stopped—of course she was! But the abrupt end left her with an unsettled sensation—like a half-finished melody. She needed to know for certain that she could have fended off the bastard on her own. That was simply unknowable now.
At home, she punched and kicked the bag until she was dripping with sweat, too tired to continue. It was nearly midnight when she showered and collapsed into bed. She awoke too soon with a churning fear, and a dread of reentering her dreams. She got up, switched on the lights, and went to the kitchen.
—
There was a time long ago when nightmares like this had been persistent—in the months after Adriano’s death. Awake, the knowledge of his loss wrapped around her like a blanket, an inescapable smothering reality. But in sleep, she sometimes forgot her brother was gone, and her mind would work out a thousand ways to rescue him from the bullet. It always found him, and she woke herself screaming.
For a while, she’d stayed with Aunt Izzy and Uncle Preston in theirsmall London flat, and was mortified on the nights she woke them, too. They were always kind about it—turning on the lights, and Izzy would heat water for tea and play a cassette tape, some soothing melody of Brahms or Elgar.
“There,” she’d say, handing Nikki a mug of hot chamomile. “Therapy in a cup.”
For his part, Preston would eat chocolates from a box, and discuss some passage he was teaching in class that week, excavating Shakespeare for advice.
“ ‘Give sorrow words,’ ” he told her. “ ‘The grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.’ ”
But Nikki wasn’t good with words and couldn’t ever describe the feeling of wrongness. The brightness of her brother had left the world. Her love for him had lost its place to rest.
—
Nikki heated water. The soft floral notes of the chamomile comforted her, and the ugly feelings that had surged like the tide over a seawall began, gradually, to recede. She was growing tired again, the stark clarity and terror of her dreams dipping below waves of fatigue. Finishing the tea, she was returning to bed when the phone rang: a call from the Phoenix Seven duty line.
She answered, recognizing the nasal tone of Romano, the youngest investigator in Phoenix Seven: “Angelo needs you to come to police HQ.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” she protested. “I’m not on duty.”
“You have to,” he insisted. “The police say it has to be you.”
“Can it wait till morning?”
